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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636678">Lionheart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/struwwel/pseuds/struwwel'>struwwel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rammstein</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Coming of Age, Developing Friendships, Friendship/Love, Gay Sex, M/M, Possibly more porn than plot to be honest, Rebellion, at least sometimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:01:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636678</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/struwwel/pseuds/struwwel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Schwerin, Summer 1987. Till feels stuck and bored in his life, until he meets Richard, who doesn’t go by that name yet. Young Scholle feels stuck in his own way, but he just might have the answer to Till’s questions.</p><p>Till’s POV.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Squirrel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">He attracted my attention because of his funny haircut: he had a long ponytail, short at the front with blond streaks - basically, he looked like a stripy squirrel.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p1">Till Lindemann, «Rammstein» by Gert Hof</p><p class="p1">————</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>Scholle, that is Sven or Richard Kruspe-Bernstein, had a blonde iro and the rest of his hair was black, he looked like a polecat. Looked disgusting, but it impressed us because it was so punky and cool.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">Flake, «Feeling B - Mix mir einen Drink» by Ronald Galenza &amp; Heinz Havemeister</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <strong>
    <span class="s1">Schwerin, 1987</span>
  </strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
Lake Schwerin looked like velvet, royal blue and deep under the late Summer sun. It was a beautiful day, still hot, but windy, and the water rippled and swirled and had turned from the usually glassy water surface into something more rugged and wild. On a day like this, he could taste sea salt on his lips and the seagulls were louder and more mournful than usually. The world felt a little bigger than it normally did, the sky higher, as if he might be able to just go, and go on and on and on.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The air near the ground was full of dust, stirred up by the harvesting being done on the fields in the region now, and the smell of straw and hay was impenetrable, even with the salty wind. The smell of woodfire was in the air too, making it feel even hotter, and the smell of stew and sausages being prepared (and often burned) over the open fires by a bunch of kids added a spiciness Till associated with something childlike, like a dream leftover from a time where he had felt as if everything was still unwritten in front of him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On the edge of the stubble field they used as a festival ground, the air near the fires was shimmering, like over hot asphalt in the distance. It was blurring the red and yellow and blue blobs of colour that at closer inspection were nothing more than kids, dressed in the most offensive garments they could find.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Primary colours and backcombed hair, and a handful of bands, some of them with a permit, some of them scarily lacking one, was all they had to combat the concrete-grey boredom of the Warsaw pact, and it meant the world to him. It had taken Matti less than a sentence to rope him into helping, into finally doing something that felt like it was worth doing, finally something that wasn’t just setting wood wheels nobody used anymore, or cutting turnips out on endless fields until his back burned. He’d escaped the assembly lines, which was lucky he supposed, and today he got to escape the rest of it too.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Just <em>Chaos</em> missing now,» Matti said, looking over his shoulder. «How is it going?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Badly,» Till said, and «Who?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Das elegante Chaos. That’s Scholle and Gert’s band.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Scholle?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Oh, I thought you knew him. Blonde guy. Sven is his real name I believe. Used to sleep on park benches alot. Carries a guitar everywhere he goes now?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Oh, little Sven!» Till rememberd him, vaguely. Pudgy kid, always in trouble for stealing cigarettes from the Kiosk down the street. «I didn’t even know he plays guitar now. Isn’t he a little young?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«He’s not so little anymore,» Matti said, and clapped his back. «Let me know how it goes. If it doesn’t work, we’ll get the big one from Raik.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was laughter in the air, close and far away at the same time, pooling in this opening space next to the lake. The excitement was palpable, something you could almost touch, like thick paint smothered over nondescript, dirty white. Finally a break, a cut through the endless, soul crushing sameness, the conformity, the mediocrity of it all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was such a small thing, just a single day that they had lied about, cheated for and broken at least five laws and alot more unspoken rules for to organise. Aharvested field for a festival ground, a trampled patch of dirt for a stage. A far cry from legendary Woodstock, and yet, they couldn’t know that, and so it meant the world, a bigger world in any case, one where the walls of concrete and ideology and stuffy dullness didn’t exist.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till tried to keep his hair out of his face and simoultanously get the small, old generator to work. It was russian, ancient and grubby, and so far he hadn’t determined if he was just too stupid to understand the cyrillic labels or if it was actually more broken than they had all assumed it was. He was in the middle of slowly starting to feel the pressure to succeed become unbearable, when the band arrived.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He watched them with melancholy envy. They seemed so free, so unconcerned. Everyone was looking at them, turning their heads, and not even that made a dent into their impenetrable air of nonchalance and confidence. Till wondered what it would be like, to be looked at with such adoration from all sides and then dismissed the thought. Terrible, probably, at least for him, hence why they were the band and he an unqualified stage hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They were loud, and obnoxious, clearly thinking they were the biggest stars in the universe - completely oblivious to the fact that their universe was just a little over a 100.000 square kilometers big and would tape their mouths shut if they dared to reach an audience beyond these kids smuggling home brewed elderflower liquor at the lake shore.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«This is Till,» Matti said, «he does all the technical bits, so if anything doesn’t work take it up with him, he will fix it.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Will I.» Till replied dryly, still wrapped up in his increasingly worrisome generator problem and nodded at the four rascals in front of him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Won’t you?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The kid Till used to know from his neighborhood carried a guitar case in one hand and dragged an amp behind him in the other. It was way too heavy for him, a real tube amp that could barely be lifted by one person alone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Because my singer here just stamped my jack to dust, the idiot.» The look the blonde youngster directed at the black haired man with round glasses Matti had introduced as Gert was deadly, a steel blue glint full of frustration.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«This is Scholle, guitar.» Matti interfered in a slightly exasperated tone and ignored the obvious tension in the air. «I’m sure Till can solder that. I believe you’ve met.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Barely.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till thought anyone should be able to solder that, seeing as it was literally the most common problem anyone who used amps ever had, ever, and he wasn’t sure a band that didn’t think of bringing a soldering bolt with them could be trusted, but after all this was the job he had agreed to do, so he might as well make himself useful. He nodded at the group infront of him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«No problem.»</span>
</p><p class="p2">«Good. At least somebody is useful around here.»</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was another, scathingly hot glance at the singer of the band, and a frustrated throwing of bleached strands of hair, before the speakers eyes settled on the scene around them, only now taking it all in. He still looked frustrated, his jaw moving subconsciously.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Little Sven maybe wasn’t so little anymore, and definitely no longer pudgy, but «Scholle, guitar» still looked like he was barely legal. Till guessed him to be a good 10 years younger than the rest of the band, with the soft features and smooth skin of a boy, and the fact that he was scowling at appearantly nothing at all (or perhaps everything at once) didn’t help. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He had atrocious hair. Long in the back and short in the front, he looked like a walking <em>fuck you</em> to anyone who had any opinion about when a hairstyle left the realms of simply being rebellious and crossed straight over into garbage fire territory. His natural hair colour used to be a dark, dirty blonde, but most of the longer strands were bleached to a light wheat gold. There was something naive about it, something overdone and too much, because it made him look more ridiculous than threatening, but there was no doubt it was also gutsy. Till didn’t question for a second there was a daily onslaught of wrinkled noses and insults directed at this guy, and it made him a little sad, the way these things always did.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till remembered him as a flighty, mistrusting boy, always on the run away from home and with a penchant for getting into streetfights with people a lot bigger than him. It had been years since he’d last seen him however, and this new guy had something of a rodent, nervous and spunky, and yet likeable. He had a pretty face like something adorable but ferocious, a polecat or a squirrel. Till suspected he was full of shit too, all big eyed and young looking - until you got too close to the theeth or set it off running.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For reasons entirely inexplicable even to himself, Till couldn’t tear his eyes away from him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Squirrel, no, <em>Scholle</em>, Till reminded himself, wore cut off jeans, sneakers that looked like they were west-made but so horribly run down they might as well have been fished out of a dumpster, and nothing else. Till couldn’t help but think that was a little stupid. Typical city kid, because he was already getting sunburned and it wasn’t even past noon yet. There were red spots forming on his nose, cheeks and shoulders, but it suited him too, the carelessness somehow adding on to and melting into all the rest of him. Judging by the golden hue of his back that looked like it had been burned before, it wasn’t the first time either. </span>
</p><p class="p2">«So, I’m assuming I can set this up on stage then,» he said, carelessly, and picked his guitar and amp back up, starting to drag it all over the stubble field.</p><p class="p2">«I can he...» Till started to say and wanted to step in to carry the heavy box for him.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I’m fine», the guy said, so pointedly and curt Till instinctively took a step back and would have almost said sorry. He stared after him, watching him struggle and kick up dust with furrowed brows.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Crazy, that one.» Gert said with a sigh. «Unfortunately too good to kick out. You got any beers around here?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">* * *</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He came to him a little later, just when Till finally had gotten the generator to work. Just a moldy connection, hidden under a brittle plastic cover, that with a bit of soldering and new copper wire was back to running smoothly as ever. Old it might be, but there was probably a reason why it had made it so far. Till was listening to it hum loudly with satisfaction, when he was reminded that there was no rest for the wicked by a blonde shock of dissatisfaction walking straight into his line of sight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I wanted to ask about my amp,» Scholle l said, in a tone that wasn’t so much a question as a complaint, and «hell, is it supposed to sound like that?» He scrutinized Till’s handiwork intently over crossed arms.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«It is.» Till said with a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">«It’s loud.»</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Music is louder.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«So what about my amp?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till cpuldn’t keep himseld from smiling even wider.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You’re next.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till’s task was cut out for him in the shape of a completely destroyed three point pin connection, that someone had tried to reattach using band aids.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Did you try to fix this?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Of course I tried!» Scholle sounded indignant.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You likely made it worse,» Till criticized while he tried to peel the tape loose. «I told you, I’d fix it.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle blew hair out of his face and looked unconcerned. «If I got a mark for everytime someone promised me something and didn’t keep their word I wouldn’t have to ever work again.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I think some people would take issue with that,» Till said, referring to the mandatory work they all were subject to, while he was slowly detangling the ruined wires to reattach to a new jack. It was an oddly personal statement to make, and it made him wince a little in sympathy. It sounded like little lost looking Sven was indeed still in there somewhere.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Yeah, well. You know. <em>Theoretically</em>.»</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> * * *</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">I recognised the guitarist next to me. That was Richard, a great guy from Schwerin, whom I had already noticed in several bands. Firstly, he looked great, and secondly he had an insanely good guitar sound.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Flake, «Heute hat die Welt Geburtstag»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till watched Scholle’s band from the shadows of the birch trees next to the patch of pressed earth they had designated as the stage. The guy moved like he had swallowed two megatons of anger and now refused to let it go. The pent up energy was in his face, in his shoulders, and somehow in the way he switched between ignoring the audience completely and simultaneously wrapping them all around his little finger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was also undoubtedly the best musician in the band. Maybe the best Till had ever seen in the flesh. He had no idea how he did it, but there was something about his sound that almost sounded like a record. It seemed wasted almost, a little displaced in it’s seriousness between all these kids who only wanted to break free from the mold they were being pressed into and couldn’t care less about the actual quality of the music.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till’s melancholy deepened at that. He didn’t really understand it. Today was supposed to be fun, and free of worry. Instead here he was, contemplating some random guy’s angry expression and increasingly falling into his usual pit of <em>if only everything would be different</em>. It would never be different. There was no escape. Not really. You could try, and get shot, or end up in prison. Or you could try and balance on the edge of a knife, and try to stick to the rules, but only <em>kind of</em>. It was exhausting, but that way days like today could become reality. Or you could just live with it. Deal with the fact the he would never do anything special in a life time. He’d force some wood into something to keep the machine running, and somebody else might use it to keep his part of the cogs entwining smoothly, and that would contribute to someone else ... the sooner he got used to the idea that his life wasn’t deserving of any kind of special treatment and exception from the hardships everybody else had to deal with too, the better.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">Get a damned grip, Lindemann. </span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p2">He watched the other two bands while chewing on that thought, wondering what had brought it on again. By the time the last band came on, it was almost dark, the sky a thick violet slowly turning into inky purple. The chinese lanterns someone had dug up and put into the trees emitted a soft, yellow light, and the dust slowly settled in the cooling air. Till smoked another cigarette and clung to his beer, while a group of absolute hellraisers desintegrated half way through their set - taking an ecstatic crowd with them. He felt weirdly detached from it, almost like watching the wrestling, curling mass of bodies descend into oblivion on tv a screen. Maybe he should go a little closer, smell the sweat. He wasn’t really feeling it, but he was feeling that he really, <em>really</em> wanted just <em>one</em> night not to be like this.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Can I have a cigarette?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till turned around to the voice coming from behind him. It was Squirrel. <em>No. Scholle.</em> Not that that was a better name.</span>
</p><p class="p2">He wore a sweater now, in a colour that was a weird nothing between green and grey and was too big for him. He leaned against the tree, a few meters away from him. Till wondered how he had gotten there so quietly, without being noticed. He must have deliberately snuck up on him. He looked younger than on stage, too.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Wordlessly Till pulled out his pack and held it up to him, so he had to come closer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Thanks,» he said and delicately pulled out a cigarette. He had nice hands, Till thought. Strong and soft at the same time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He kept holding up the package.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Take two,» Till said, feeling generous. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Squirrel didn’t smile, but there was the tiniest smirk at the corner of his mouth. Hetilted his head graciously and put a second cigarette behind his ear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Do you have fire, too?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till lit the lighter for him and Squirrel, no, <em>Scholle</em> for <em>heaven’s sake</em>, bent his head over the flame, shielding it with one hand against the evening breeze. The light from the small fire illuminated his face momentarily. He had nice skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«So what kind of name is Scholle?» Till inquired around his cigarette, putting his lighter and cigarettes back into his pocket.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«One I didn’t chose,» Scholle said. «It’s just a nickname.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fair enough.</span>
</p><p class="p2">«So what about Sven?»</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I didn’t chose that one either.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ok then.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Are you ever answereing a question?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle grinned, his teeth glinting in the low light. «Are you ever asking something interesting?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till shrugged. Let the man have his secrets he supposed, although the thought felt mechanical. Something he <em>should</em> think, rather than actually <em>thought</em>, because for some reason he felt inappropriately curious about this one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He let his eyes wander back to the crowd, mostly so he wouldn’t keep staring at rodent boy’s pretty skin and deep set eyes and nimble hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Surprisingly enough, there <em>was</em> something interesting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«What do you think they have on <em>him</em>?» Till asked and pointed with his chin at the young man standing a bit further back in dark, neatly fitting clothing. He looked nervous and misplaced in his clean slacks and carefully trimmed hair and seemed to jump with every beat against the bassdrum. He stood out like a sore thumb - and Till didn’t trust him any further than he could spit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Informant</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He might as well have written it on to his forhead, it was that obvious. Clearly being on his own, clearly not fitting in, clearly a stranger. Till guessed him a few years younger than himself, maybe Scholle’s age. He looked lost, twitchy and thouroughly miserable. Definatly not happy to be there, definatly not a natural. Which made him think he’d been pressured into it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle took a drag from his smoke, the tabaco lighting up. He had one arm crossed infront of him, the other with the cigarette rested on it, and watched the object of intrigue under furrowed brows for a few breaths.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Fucked a dude, probably.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till could barely keep his face from sliding into surprise or displeasure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«What makes you think that?» he asked, suspiciously. «That’s not even illegal.»</span>
</p><p class="p2">Scholle shrugged. «They don’t care about legality, they just care if they can blackmail you.»</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till shook his head in denial, but didn’t find a good argument against it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«How are you sure?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The young guitarist flashed him a smile. It took over his whole face with irony but there was a bitterness to it that made Till feel a little ill. Then he shrugged.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Got busted. They made me chose, too.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«...between?» Till pressed, still not quite able to shake the nagging sense of mistrust he didn’t even want to feel.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Prison, or being a snitch. And before you ask...» and here his voice took on an icy, defensive note, «... why I’m not locked up, they gave me a few days to think about it and I told everyone. Guess they lost interest after that.» Scholle blew out smoke with a whooshing breath, his eyes locked ahead on the guy in the black slacks. Till watched his profile, the stubborn set of his jaw and the narrowed eyes. If that was true, Scholle had been lucky. Or maybe just insanely brave. It seemed unlikely, and yet ... Till still didn’t know what to think, but he seemed believable enough. <em>Crazy, that one</em> Gert had said. He should probably know, being a bandmate...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«<em>Look</em> at him.» The guitarist did look amused now. Till followed his gaze back to the pit. Informant-boy was twitching, running nervous hands through slick hair and tugging on his jacket. «Even if that’s not what they have on him, he’s <em>definitely</em> fucking dudes.»</span>
</p><p class="p2">Till crossed his arms. «Is that what they had on you, too?» he asked provocatively. There was something about the way Scholle kept going on about it that he disliked. The beginning of disappointment felt bitter, and took him by surprise in it’s severity. He’d so very much wanted to like this person. Hell, he already <em>did</em> like him.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Nah, they don’t know about that,» the blonde youngster said without missing a beat. «Just played without a permit and didn’t get out fast enough.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till stared at him. <em>They don’t know about that.</em> Did he mean ...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle snipped his filter away and stamped it out with his worn out high tops. Till already wanted to warn him about the dry grass, but he kept doing it, until it was definitely, most certainly snuffed. He was smiling, and this time it took over his entire face without any hint of compromise. The mischief in his eyes was catching, daring Till to take offense. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«What! You’re gonna tell on me? You said it yourself, it’s not even illegal.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till let out a huff and uncrossed his arms. He felt one hundred percent exasperated.</span>
</p><p class="p2">«Are you always looking for a fight?» </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I’m looking for a place to stay for tonight,» Scholle said and pushed the hair out of his face. «Got one?»</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Songs About Fucking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Till takes young Richard home with him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>[Big Black] was the first industrial</em><br/>
<em>band that got me into that whole industrial genre.</em>
</p><p><br/>
Richard Z. Kruspe, Whole Lotta Talk, Ep. 13</p><p>____<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <strong>Schwerin, Summer 1987</strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«How far is it?» Scholle asked with his arms crossed tight while he suspiciously watched Till heave his amp into the trunk of his Trabant. It just about fit and the car dipped under the added weight. Till slammed the door shut with satisfaction.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«About 8 kilometers ...», Till pointed vaguely up the street, «... that way.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle frowned into the darkness and then down the street the opposite direction towards town. He wrinkled his forehead and then dropped his arms swinging them from left to right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I uh...mhh. I need to take the train tomorrow.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I will drive you back.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle hesitated and Till felt slightly indignant. He wasn’t about to let him walk all the way back with his heavy as shit amp now, was he.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I pinky swear,» he said and held out his hand with his finger stretched out. «There’s a bus too in case you want to bail early in the morning.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle looked at his hand, then back down the street and then offered him a pixie grin so disarming it made Till’s stomach flip. He really was so pretty.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Bail from what, exactly?» he asked sweetly and ignored Till’s outstretched hand as he opened the door to the passenger seat and squeezed in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till exhaled and took a moment to ask the stars for help. It was shaping up to be a beautiful night, with a hint of early autumn cold biting into the dusty summer air, and a clear sky. And he was in over his head. This high strung kid, half on his way to become a local star, was flirting with him. Or was he? He thought he was, but it seemed almost too unrealistic. Scholle was cool, he was talented, he was in a band - and Till was a hanger-on. It seemed a bit too much luck for one night.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sighed and got into the car. The stars hadn’t answered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The short drive home was unnerving. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till didn’t know what to say, and Scholle was silent, only throwing side-eyed glances his way that Till was just able to make out but couldn’t react to if he didn’t want to kill them prematurely in a car crash. He had a feeling his passenger was silently laughing at him - or maybe that was just in his head. He hoped it was, anyway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When they finally reached the house, Scholle left the amp in the car but brought his guitar and then stood way too close while Till scrambled for his keys.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I’m not going to bite you, you know.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till finally managed to unlock the door and caught Scholle’s glittering look from underneath his fringe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«That’s a damn shame.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle’s smile widened. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I’m not an asshole.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Could have fooled me,» Till mumbled under his breath, a little shocked at his own comeback, and pushed the door open. «After you.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle reacted to Till’s open, more or less single room, living space with comfortable indifference, seemingly unbothered by wandering into a strangers space. Which was just as well, only most people at least had something <em>mildly</em> impressed to say about his home-build and wildly assorted furniture. Till started to feel like he was really playing miles out of his league.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You want a drink?» he asked and watched his new friend set down his guitarcase and a horribly battered backpack next to his old leather couch that he had stitched up with a painstakingly acquired collection of colourful patches.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Yeah, sure. What do you have?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Beer? Wine? Schnapps? What do you want?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle plopped down on the couch and ran his hands through his hair to smooth it out. Till really wanted to mess it back up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Cola?» </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till hesitated. «I think so.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Then I want that,» Scholle said, with a hint of a challenge in his voice and a stubborn set to his jaw.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Coming right up,» Till said casually, but he did wonder. <em>Scholle didn’t trust him.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the kitchen he poured himself two fingers of Korn to settle his nerves and downed it fast before he took out a beer from his fridge and a Club can for Scholle that he, to his relief, found tucked behind the milk. Thank god. Maybe the stars hadn’t completely abandoned him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he got back, he found his guest sitting on the carpet with his legs crossed and studying his record collection with rapt attention. He ran a long index finger over the back of the covers, stopping here and there to pull something out a centimeter and then push it back in. His head was tilted to the side to be able to read better, lips slightly parted and moving without sound. He didn’t even look up when Till held out the can to him. He might as well have stopped existing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till cleared his throat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Hmm?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Cola?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Err ... uhmm.» Scholle held out his hand without looking at him and missed the can two times before he glanced up and took it properly. Then he was back at studying each and every LP individually, the can unopened in his lap. All his bravado had disappeared, replaced with determined concentration.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Found something you like?» Till dared to ask after a minute of silence. Scholle fished out a battered Alice Cooper record with pointed fingers, stared at it for a moment and put it back before he answered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Mmhm ...» he glanced up for another second. «You’ve got good taste.» Then he was gone again. It wasn’t even a compliment, he’d sounded more like stating a fact, but Till didn’t miss the note of appreciation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He couldn’t decide if he was amused, disappointed at losing Scholle’s flirtatious attention, or satisfied he finally had managed to somewhat impress him. After he’d stamped down the traitorous disappointment, he hung on to the satisfaction, leaned against the wall next to the turntable and watched Scholle continue his inspection.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«How <em>the fuck!</em>» </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle picked out a fresh, bright lime green cardboard sleeve and pulled it out fully to stare at it. Till grinned and was tempted to make a joke at the title, but then didn’t, taken aback by the almost angry or hurt expression that had plastered itself on his guest’s face. «How do you even <em>get</em> this stuff!!» </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till felt uncomfortable suddenly. He wasn’t ashamed of his connections, and sometimes even welcomed the opportunity to brag about it, with perfumed west cigarettes pulled out of his sleeve at the right moment, or a pair of thick blue jeans that bought him the favor of stage outfit obsessed musicians. It was a meaningless show, something he did because he didn’t have anything else in his favor, nothing more. But right here, confronted with the open envy of this guy, who’d watched him fix his amp with hawkish and worried eyes as if Till had been operating on his first born, he suddenly felt like he didn’t deserve it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Some friends of my parents go over alot,» he said apologetically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«This just came out!» Scholle protested. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I know,» Till said, and held out his hand. «You want to listen to it? I can tape it for you, if you want.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle didn’t react for a moment, eyes still fixed on the LP in his lap, before he nodded with visible indignation and held it out to him. «Yeah. That’d be nice.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till found a cassette that hadn’t been used too much yet to record over and put the record on. Scholle settled on the carpet infront of the speakers, sitting with his back against the couch and his arms wrapped around his knees, waiting.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">[Big Black’s «Songs About Fucking» is] a napalm attack that sticks to your skin like burning party-jell, spiced with hundreds and thousands, a prickly sensation that's as all-consuming as it is repellent.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dave Henderson, Underground Magazine, 1987</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">____</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been the quiet concentration with which Scholle listened to the acidic noise Big Black poured out over them when Till hit play and record. He personally didn’t quite get it, he’d <em>ordered</em> this particular album because he’d known the tapes off it could probably bring in a nice profit amongst the right people. Scholle on the other hand seemed to get it perfectly, nodding along with his eyes half closed as if he was agreeing empathetically with some grand philosophical speach. He tapped out the rhythms on his knees with his fingertips, as if he already knew these songs in and out, and looked up only once, in the beginning of the second song. It tore a wide smile out of him in recognition. Till thought that if he hadn’t fallen in love with his passion three hours ago when he’d watched him play, it probably would have happened now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Side B wasn’t really any different. Scholle settled on his stomach with his head resting on crossed arms, as if he wanted to mirror the way Till turned both the vinyl and the casette, and then kept listening exactly as mesmerized as before. Till could have watched him forever, and the melancholy of the day returned to him without missing a beat. It wasn’t fair, he thought, that something that clearly mattered as much as this had to be this elusive and hard to come by.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When it was done, Till copied some of the credits on the card sleeve unto the paper inlay of the cassette and tried to ignore the stretching silence. He didn’t want to interrupt any world changing thought processes, but the tension in the room did make him uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«There you go,» Till said, and held the cassette out to him once he had packed it up and just couldn’t stand the silence anymore.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle looked up, as if he was returning from a different plane of existence and after a confused moment his smile grew dizzying and happy, a bright and twinkling expression full of temptation. «Thanks,» he said and folded his legs to lift him up a bit when he reached for it. Then his smile faded, like a heavy cloud suddenly darkening the sun. «Wait, how much do you want for it?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till took a stale last sip from his beer. It did little to calm his fluttering nerves, but it gave him something to hold on to while he returned Scholle’s worried look.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A tape like that could easily get him 25 to 30 Marks, 35 if he was persuasive enough. He’d spend 18 just on the casette alone, and normally he would have never given it away for less than that. But Till was ensnared already, even if he didn’t quite know it yet, truly trapped into wanting to see this boy happy, and so he shook his head without alot of thought.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«It’s on the house.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle hesitated for a heartbeat longer and then snatched the small plastic case out of his hand, his smile returning. He turned it in his fingers a few times with his head bowed over it and then spoke again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You know, I’ll have sex with you even if you don’t give me gifts.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till nearly choked on his own spit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Hmmm,» he replied as indifferently and sarcastic as he could manage. «I thought I’d try and improve my chances anyway. Just to be sure.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle huffed, clearly not buying it. His bottom lip was trapped between his teeth and he looked at Till through a few messy streaks of blond with dark, blue and grey eyes. Despite being on the floor, it felt somehow as if he was looking down on Till and was measuring him slowly, scanning his body with the practiced appreciation of a wine connoisseur tasting a promising red. It made the heat rise to Till’s face, and he wished he’d stop, but somehow it was impossible to look away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Come on. You know that’s why you brought me here.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till didn’t feel like admitting it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You could have easily stayed with Gert. Without worrying about being stranded in the middle of nowhere.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«True.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle held out his hand to him in a demanding gesture and Till pulled him to his feet. He was light, unexpectedly light for his frame, Till thought, and the velocity made him stumble forward right into Till’s chest and so close he had no other choice but to let go of him and put his hands around his waist instead. Hot breath hit his face in a sharp exhale.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was close enough now for Till to study his face and find details he hadn’t noticed before. There was a tiny rash on his left cheek that could have been sunburn or something else, and an even smaller one below his right eyebrow. He smelled of cigarettes and fresh sweat and hay, and Till swallowed. It was embarrassingly loud, a click in a silent room that was suddenly only filled with their quick, heavy breathing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You should be a singer,» Scholle said matter of factly, and his voice vibrated between them. The thought was ludicrous,and out of the blue, and Till had to laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«What makes you think <em>that</em>?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You look like one,» Scholle said, and started running an appreciative hand up his arm, following the movement with his eyes. «You look too good to stand in the back of the crowd, anyway.» </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till thought that was bullshit, but he couldn’t help liking the way Scholle touched him and looked at him, like he was actually worth being looked at, and stayed silent, still holding on to the warm waist between his hands. He could sense the firmness of skin underneath worn thin cotton and it made his ears buzz with a low hum.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I want you,» Scholle said straightforwardly but without meeting his eyes. «But I’m on top.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till didn’t really like the idea of that. The last times he’d tried taking a dick up his ass had been painful or degrading at best, but he found himself nodding anyway and ignored the nervous fear sneaking up on him. One of them, he argued, had to do it after all, and he feared Scholle changing his mind more than he feared the pain, and losing the way Scholle looked at him more than any shame he could think of.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till wanted some of that freedom he had seen on stage, and later when he’d met a boy, barely a man, who had the simple audacity to deny his own name. He wanted some of that easy charme with which he’d shown up on a stubble field as a total misfit and had walked away being adored and stared at. He wanted the quiet intensity and passion with which he’d tuned into noisy overwhelming music as if it was a Bach Sonata, and most of all he wanted some of that fragility he sensed underneath all that, like a gemstone glittering between granite.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He wanted some of whatever it was that Scholle had and he didn’t, some piece of something extraordinary and special, and he had the distinct impression that he had to take it now, at this moment that felt like a once in a lifetime opportunity. It seemed unlikely as it was, that he’d somehow caught the attention of someone who didn’t need to extend attention to anyone to get laid at all. He had no idea what on earth Scholle saw in him, but he didn’t want to question it too closely. All he knew was that he didn’t want to let it slip, whatever the cost, and that he would do anything to get it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Ok,» he choked out, and Scholle threw him his mind melting grin. He relocated his hands and pushed up Till’s shirt and helped him take it off before he pulled his own sweater and shirt unceremoniously over his head. Till felt like his brain short circuited when he stepped back between his arms and hit him skin on skin. It felt like electrified silk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle ran his hand’s over his arms again, his shoulders, his back. His face was tilted up to him, and Till had to concentrate to not have to avoid his amused eyes that seemed to x-ray his soul from under half closed lids. He tried to mirror what he was doing, feeling after soft skin over strong shoulders but he felt clumsy and insecure and shy. Thankfully, Scholle was nice about it and pretended not to notice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He fumbled with Till’s belt buckle and then pulled his jeans over his hips, panting a little and staring down between them and watching his erection get free. Till hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt like - and in an effort to not completely act like a clueless fool leaned in to rest his forehead on Scholle’s collarbone for a few breaths before he gathered enough courage to lean further and lick over a small, dark nipple. It was salty and intoxicating and drew out a satisfied little chuckle out of his partner.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You got anything?» Scholle asked and gently pushed him towards the bed at the far end of the room. Till had no choice but walk backwards and watch him take off the rest of his clothes as casually as the sweater. He tried not to stare too openly when he was completely naked - and then gave up quickly. <em>He might as well.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Uhm .... what?!»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Vaseline?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Right,» Till said and it was a small mercy that there really wasn’t any way left in which he could have felt any more out of his depth. This problem at least could be solved by a quick rummage through the drawer of his nightstand, and he pressed a small tin into Scholle’s hand without looking at him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was a considerable part in Till’s mind that felt absolute bewilderment and no small amount of terror at what he was about to do, but it was overriden by the rest that so terribly, terribly wanted this.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till’s legs hit his raised bed frame and he stopped, waiting for any indication on what to do next helplessly, despite knowing perfectly what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t decide if everything happened to fast or too slow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle threw a lazy arm around his neck and looked up at him, more serious now and with an inquisitive look. Till could see the way his eyes looked transparent when the light hit them sideways, and a speck of salvia glittering on his lips, and it seemed like surreal details to notice, as if his brain was still trying to make sense of things after being thrown into an alien no man’s land.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You are very pretty,» he mumbled because he felt like he should say something and that was the only thing he could think of saying. Scholle kissed him then, without wasting any time on gentleness or exploration. It was greedy and sexual and oh so seductive that Till gave up on any attempt at intellect once he brought their hips together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Turn around,» Scholle mumbled against his mouth, and gave him a little push. «Bend over.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till felt a red hot rush of shame at being ordered around that way but found himself obeying willingly anyway. His elbows protested at the weight he put on them when he propped himself up on the mattress, going low. Till was grateful for the distracting sting. He mustn’t think about how he looked, couldn’t think about how open he was now, or he would panic. Scholle moaned something that sounded like «Oh god,» grabbed at his cock, and that was that for self control.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till stared down, at the clever fingers wrapped around him, the thumb stroking over his head and spreading viscous white, and he was taken aback by how terribly good they felt and how good Scholle’s hot, panting breath felt against his skin. His ears were ringing and he was so preoccupied with not losing his bearings through it, that the slick, cool fingers pushing into him hardly bothered him. They did bother him somewhat when they started poking and stretching at him, and he could sense the fear and embarrassment at the corner of his mind when he started thinking about it. But everytime he got too close too unpleasantness, Scholle’s other hand did something new and unexpected, he nibbled at his shoulder with a hot mouth, or murmured sweet lies into his ears, like how hot he found him and how much he wanted him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till <em>did</em> nearly panic once he felt a hot tip of smooth hard flesh pushing his butt cheeks apart, and the burning preassure pain that followed made him sure that this would never, ever, work. He would have honest to god chickened out of it, if Scholle hadn’t whimpered into his ear, low but getting louder and drawn out and breathy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Oww ... god you feel so good ... ohhh ffuu ...»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till found he could hardly deny him after that and begged his body to please, <em>please</em>, listen to him and open up, and it worked somehow, because on the last centimeters Scholle slid into him smoothly, if horribly snug.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Need a minute?» he asked breathlessly and Till was vaguely aware of how he leaned his cheek against his shoulder blade and trembled. He could only nod.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle gave him less than a minute, with his hand relocating from Till’s hips to his stomach, but when he started moving it was gentle and slow, despite their hectic, mingled breaths setting a faster pace. His right hand closed again around Till’s dick and again it felt good enough to distract him from any discomfort he might have felt otherwise as he picked up the pace.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till could see some of Scholle’s profile over his shoulder, saw the way his face was twisted and scrunched up into a mask of lust and need with bared teeth and a pretty flush to his skin. He narrowed in somehow on the sweat beading at his temple, making his skin glitter. Scholle moaned into his ear, not so much a voiced sound, and more so deliciously shaped exhales. The sound of it was primal and melodical at the same time and dug it’s way right into Till’s stomach and spread heat. He vaguely understood that he was being had, <em>taken</em>, used for pleasure, but he found he didn’t mind now that it started to feel so good and it looked like he somehow hadn’t ruined it all. Scholle’s hand had stopped stroking him and just jerked occasionally without much coordination while he was pushing in and in and in again but Till was too overwhelmed with the feeling of terrifying closeness to do it himself, and besides, the pleasurable warmth in his belly started spreading faster and faster and maybe Scholle’s hand holding on would be quite enough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till sensed the wave coming in, first far away, then closing in, but before he could really dive into it, it was all over. Scholle clung to him, merely shaking, and came with a desperately suppressed sob. He kept pushing it, but it was weaker now, too weak to sustain the wave until he used his hands again and brought Till the relief he was aching for. He leaned against him afterwards, putting his arms around his chest and putting added pressure on Tills aching elbows while they both caught their breaths. Till could feel his heartbeat against his back and couldn’t help feel a little sting of disappointment at the way his perfect wave had fizzled out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Sorry,» Scholle mumbled behind him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till pushed them both back up from the bed, and Scholle slipped out of him, leaving behind a sticky mess on his thighs to matched the one on his stomach. Till placed his hands over Scholle’s and took one of them to plant a quick, messy kiss across his knuckles, grinning like a fool. The disappointment faded quickly, replaced with the satisfaction of a still decent enough orgasm and the realization that he’d just had extremely good feeling sex by taking a local guitar hero miles out of his league up his ass without losing face. It was the perfect afterglow to basque in. </span>
</p><p class="p2">They ended up on top of the duvet together, Scholle stretched out on his back, one leg put up and arms crossed behind his head, and Till propped on his elbow looking down on him and taking him in. He was still breathing a little fast, his bleached hair a yellow mess around his flushed face. His dick was still glistening from vaseline and cum, and Till thought he was the most beautiful mess he’d ever seen. He would have liked to kiss him or stroke his hair, but sensed they hadn’t advanced from fucking to post fuck cuddles quite yet.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You got a cigarette?» Scholle asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Do you ever have your own?» Till retorted, glad his voice was sounding almost normal, but scrambled to get a pack and a lighter from his makeshift nightstand, along with a small astray he could put between them. </span>
</p><p class="p2">«Not if I can help it.»</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle turned on his side and mirrored Till’s pose, head propped up on one arm, eyes cast down while he lit his cigarette. Bleached strands of hair fell into his eyes and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. They fell back into his face right away, and when it happened the second time Till couldn’t resist. He reached out to tuck it back and let his hand linger against soft skin for a moment. To his surprise, Scholle blushed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I liked that,» he said, without looking up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till was happy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Me too.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle’s eyes darted across the room before he kind of looked back at Till, kind of avoided eye contact. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I kinda botched it,» he added with a lopsided smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You didn’t.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle stamped out his cigarette and fell backwards on the bed. Till finished his and then got rid of the ashtray between them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«So why aren’t you in a band?» Scholle wanted to know. «I mean, clearly you like music. Around here, everyone who likes music is in a band.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Uhm. I can’t play anything?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«It doesn’t matter? Nobody here really does.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till shifted, slightly amused. His hand fell between them, the back of it lightly touching Scholle’s arm. He could pretend it was an accident. It wasn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«<em>You</em> can.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle smiled up at him and rolled his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«That’s because I locked myself into a room for 3 years and didn’t have a life. It doesn’t mean shit.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till didn’t like the bitter note of self deprecation in that but didn’t comment on it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«So what does. Mean something.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle shrugged.</span>
</p><p class="p2">«It means something if it matters to someone. Nobody today cared about how good the music really was. They care about getting away, about feeling something. I mean <em>that</em>,» he vaguely gestured in the general direction of Till's record player, «that’s basically just noise too, right? If you pick up an instrument and you make people feel something, anything, and get them out of their head for 3 minutes, who cares what it sounds like? It’s ... it just has to say something. Make someone feel less lonely, or sad. That is the only thing that matters.»</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till let his fingers run over Scholle’s arm. He wanted to comfort him, without being able to explain really why he seemed like he needed comfort.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«It’s like ... Robin Hood,» Scholle continued.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Robin Hood?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Yeah. You know? I mean realistically you can’t feed people with just stealing a few things. But it still matters. The gesture matters because it gives people courage. It’s like that with music too.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till felt a dull, undefined ache right behind his ribs, something right between sadness and the sentimental edge of big, fantastical hope.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«So you’re saying if I pick up a shitty drum kit and just hit it wherever I feel like, that matters as much as if you sacrifice your life for 3 years? That doesn’t seem very fair.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle shrugged petulantly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Life ain’t fair. If you get someone else to feel it with you, it could matter more.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I would like to be in a band. I could drum, maybe» Till admitted, feeling foolish. It was a secret fantasy he never shared, but Scholle somehow made it seem so normal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You should. We could jam sometime.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till huffed, embarrassed even just thinking about it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Right.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Why not?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till shook his head, a little speechless. Because Scholle was a star to him and he was ... well. Himself. He wanted to argue, that surely no one, let alone someone who could really, actually play, would want to play with <em>him</em> of all people. He wanted to say so, but felt it was too much of an admission of bad self esteem, too much showing weakness. If Scholle thought more of him than he was, maybe it was ok to let him believe it for now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I’ll think about it.»</span>
</p><p class="p2">«Cool,» Scholle said, and shivered. </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till noted the gooseflesh all over his torso.</span>
</p><p class="p2">«You’re cold. Do you want your clothes back?» he asked, getting up.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle’s eyes glittered dark and melancholic in his sun kissed face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Just the sweater.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till got himself another beer and the discarded can of Cola for his guest on the way. Scholle requested another record and made him choose, which threw him right into a panicked debate with himself over what to go for. In the end, he settled on Pink Floyd because it seemed like a safe bet and he didn’t feel like being judged for his choices. It seemed to be received well enough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Back in bed and under the covers, their knees bumped together and Till was painfully aware that they were both still stark naked, well, save for Scholle’s too big sweater. He didn’t know what to say, and was grateful for the music playing while they drank and watched each other. It was a bit embarrassing, with Scholle catching his side eyes staring too many times for it to pass as accidental, but hey. He <em>was</em> kind of staring back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I kinda want to do it again,» Scholle said out of the blue when their drinks were empty and the record over. «If you like ... I mean.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till liked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was different that second time. Scholle was facing him, his face pressed against Till’s neck to avoid his eyes, and the way Till had to push his hands under that ugly cotton sweater to reach his skin made it oddly intimate. When they kissed, Scholle tasted of sweet soda - and it reminded Till that he was still so young despite making him feel so inexperienced in comparison, and it all was a little more lazy and languid. Still, he caught that perfect wave and rode it to the end this time, and Scholle came panting and moaning before he collapsed on top of him, completely spend. Till could feel his heart hammer wildly against his chest, and when he could breathe again he collected all the courage he could muster.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Can I see you again?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Hmmm,» Scholle affirmed nonchalantly. «I don’t have a telephone. But my band is easy enough to find.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Great. Now I’ll be a groupie, too.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle yawned, and rolled over. He took Till’s arm with him and draped it around his waist in a clear demand to be held, no matter how uncomfortable it may be for his victim. «I like the idea of that.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I bet you do.»</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There are a few things to say about this chapter. </p><p>1. Dear smut fans, do not get used to this. I am exhausted.</p><p>2. I lately feel like everything I write is shit. I tend to go by that if  it feels that way it’s a sign I’m growing, but still. I figure it’s only fanfiction, but hell. I feel bad about posting this. Please be nice. </p><p>3. I question writing this at all because super lovely Kitthefox already wrote it all a lot better than I ever could. Please check out this master piece and leave a comment: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27636800/chapters/67619885</p><p>4. Most of the music part in this is owed to the fact of that first Richard Quote, the fact he has that record in his studio, and me being a massive, massive Steve Albini superfan. He was the creative genius behind this band and went on to produce 2 of my most favorite albums (Nirvana - In Utero and Gogol Bordello - Gypsy Punks), and in all fairness: It IS an amazing record. So I just had to. Songs About Fucking came out in September 1987, which makes it about a month or two too late for this timeline, but I thought it was still close enough to work.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Guitar Case</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Till goes to see Scholle’s band.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Till used to be a fan of mine and always brought my guitar case to the rehearsal space. </em>
</p><p>Richard Z. Kruspe, Forum Magazin Interview, 2019</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Schwerin, Dezember 1987</strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till stood squeezed in between the bar, the doorway towards the toilets and too many people, and clung to his beer. To his right, Matti chatted with a group of people they had met before on occasions just like this: a couple with a penchant for public affection and their ever third wheeling friend, and two teenagers Till had never seen before. The ground was sticky under his feet, broken glass crunching pleasantly beneath his boots.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Between moving heads and a cacophony of voices, he tried to catch a glimpse of Scholle’s catastrophic hair. He had changed it, the sides were black now, and it made his skin look even prettier than it had been weeks ago when he’d last seen him. Spoken to him. Sucked his cock in the dirty bathroom of a youth center in Rostock, really, but he tried not to dwell on that too hard, not least because he’d been so drunk he remembered regretfully little of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle was chatting with a group of enthusiastic onlookers infront of the stage, and it was just a matter of time until the next band would sweep in and wipe him away. Till would have to come to terms with the fact that if he wanted to talk to him, he’d have to make a move.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sighed and slipped his beer behind Matti’s back. «I’ll be right back,» he mumbled, and started shoving people aside as unassuming as he could. It was easy at first, a gentle shove against someone’s shoulder usually enough to get them to move, but the closer he got to the group of people flocking around Scholle, the more it felt like moving through clay. By the time Till stood just outside the impenetrable ring formed around the guitarist sitting on the edge of the stage with his feet dangling, he felt exhausted, and stupid. Now what. Interrupt a conversation?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle listened to a girl chatting to him with a serious, concentrated face. Maybe pinched was a better word. Four other people that maybe were friends or maybe couples, just stood by and laughed at his clipped, one liner answers and cheered at everything he said. It didn’t seem to be terribly interesting. Someone asked something about if his Fender guitar was <em>real</em>, Scholle said it was. Someone said that maybe he should play topless more, Scholle said maybe and shrugged with an embarassed little smile. Till suddenly knew that he was bored - and uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and made a step forward.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Till!!!» </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The brilliant smile lighting up Scholle’s young face was a mixture of relief and genuine joy, and he pushed himself off the stage with a little jump.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«This is Till,» he explained to his audience unnecessarily, and leaned forward to drawhim into his circle by his arm. «He has the best record collection I know. And he makes really good breakfasts!» Till could feel the sudden awkward silence and jealous stares on his skin. He’d interrupted something, and now they wanted him gone. It was both flattering and uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Do you want this?» Scholle kept chattering, seemingly without noting the thickening air. He held an almost full bottle of beer into Till’s face and shook it hard enough for the foam to creep over the edge. «People always buy me these but I don’t even like them. It’s really exhausting, you know.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till had to smile despite himself. «What a terrible burden,» he mused and liberated him from his bottle. Scholle laughed, face flushed. Till suddenly enjoyed the other’s stares.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«It <em>is</em>!! Where have you been? You wanted to come to the gig in Berlin!!»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yeah, he didn’t remember <em>that</em> one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Uhm. I couldn’t make it. Work.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle sniffed, critically. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«We played here, too, two weeks ago.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I saw. You were out and gone three minutes after you left the stage,» Till said reproachfully.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle lit up, standing straighter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You <em>were</em> there! Eh ... right. Yeah we had to get ...»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was interrupted by things to their right suddenly moving. Two black dressed figures, with equally black hair the texture of candy cotton, were pushing another amp through the crowds towards the stage and forced people to make room. The small space was taken by a sudden wave, stretching and pressing people together. Till found himself with his back to the wall, Scholle pressed into his side.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«We played late and usually by then they’re on their way already. None of us has the paperwork so we had to get out fast,» Scholle explained, half yelling into his ear. «Sorry about that. If I’d seen you, I would have said goodbye.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Another shift in the crowd caused considerable more unrest, and Scholle stumbled against Till’s chest. Blonde hair whipping around his face he turned, and cursed, trying to find his balance again. Till steadied him with a firm grip around his shoulders. They felt exactly how he remembered them and his fingers tingled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle smiled up at him ... and got slammed against him from behind a third time. His smile turned to an eyeroll and a frown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Do you need to watch these?» he pointed at the stage. Till kind of wanted to, but <em>need</em>... need was a strong word. He shook his head.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Good. Come with me.» Scholle grabbed his hand, and pulled. His palm was warm and dry, his fingers felt strong and breakable at the same time around Till’s hand and the sudden possessiveness touched something in him that he’d intended to forbid himself to feel before coming here. He found himself dragged through the crowd, and then sideways through a back door and a dark corridor full of stacked chairs, discarded clothes, bags, cables and cases. Scholle grabbed a jeans jacket in passing and then they stumbled outside.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was cold, and Till blinked against the blinding street light illuminating the backyard behind the building. The sudden fresh air cleared some of the fog left in his head by too many people and highlighted another: he’d had way too much to drink. Scholle let go of his hand and stood too closely in front of him while he struggled into his jacket. He fished a lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of his pockets and smiled that stomach turning smile of his, all blinding triumph. Till blinked at the fresh pack of real <em>Marlboros</em>, still wrapped into cellophane.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«What did you have to do for those?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle shrugged serenely and started prying at the wrapping.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Play guitar,» he said with an innocent expression so obviously fake, Till couldn’t hold back a snort.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Just that, hmm.» He tugged at the lapel of Scholle’s jacket, to further expose his neck. There, on soft pale skin bloomed two hickies, one almost faded, one still purplish and dark. Till didn’t feel jealousy so much as envy - and a drunk sort of indignation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I could make you a better one, if you like.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He <em>definatly</em> had too much to drink. Again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle swatted his hand away and tugged his jacket back into place, and further, to cover his neck. He almost looked embarrassed, but he still smiled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Actually, they really just liked our music.» He paused and bit his lip. «On both accounts.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He lit two cigarettes at once, huffing and struggling a bit to get them going, before handing one over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till decided to better drop it for now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Thanks. You did good,» he admitted, and took a long drag from his cigarette. It was fragrant and smooth, alot nicer than his usual Karos.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I messed up the solo in the second song.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«No one noticed.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Actually, Till <em>had</em> noticed, as well as the very cute and sulky face Scholle had worn the entire rest of the song, but he didn’t think it would be very wise to tell him that. Besides, what he really meant was that nobody had <em>cared</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«<em>I</em> noticed.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«So? What happened to it doesn’t matter what it sounds like, as long as it means something to people?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle winced a little and shrugged petulantly. Blonde streaks of sticky hair fell forward into his face, and together with his downcast eyes, the critically down turned corners of his mouth around his cigarette, and the way he drew his shoulders in against the cold, he suddenly looked vulnerable. Till couldn’t resist wiping the mess of pale yellow away from his forehead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«The rules don’t apply to you, hmm?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle shook his head and it looked resigned.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«No. <em>Yes</em>. I mean, it’s true for <em>here</em>. You know? For these club gigs. But I don’t know. I always wanted to ...» he paused, and rubbed his face. «I always wanted to be like Kiss.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Like Kiss?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle shrugged again. «Yeah. You know, big show, a big fantasy. You don’t get away with three chords and a messy solo with that. I don’t know. I’d just like to be better.» He wiped his own face again, with a mixture of impatience and embarrassment, as if he was annoyed with himself. «Anyway. Never gonna happen, right.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till didn’t know what to say to that. It probably never would, and he felt terribly sorry for that. He still wanted to make him feel better.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You never know. It could? You’re good enough.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle observed him very sceptically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«This is usually the part where people laugh at me. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">«I don’t think it’s very funny,» </span> <span class="s1">Till said, and meant it.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They finished smoking in silence. Till watched Scholle’s face, the way his hand stretched and folded and his lips closed around his cigarette. Scholle looked up sometimes, quick glances through his messy hair, that stubbornly refused to stay out of his face. Then he dropped the filter and stumped it out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You should come more often,» he said, and stepped right into Till’s space, face tilted up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till dropped the remains of his cigarette, and put his arm around Scholle’s waist. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t misreading any clues here, but didn’t think that he did. He tucked more blonde hair behind Scholle’s ear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I’ll try.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle turned up his head, threw his hair back, his eyes full of something wild and angry that Till couldn’t quite get a read on. «So are you just gonna talk or are you actually following through on your grand promises?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I didn’t promise. I offered.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till’s evasion was rewarded with an empathic eye roll, and a brush with a cold nose against his cheek.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Whatever. Offers, then.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Was this really happening? That easy? It couldn’t be. Yet judging by the weight leaning against his chest, it really was.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Okay, if you want.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Another eye-roll.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Seriously?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till grinned and kissed his mouth first, and now was glad again for the alcohol in his bloodstream making him bold. Scholle smelled of sweat and tasted like cigarettes and the beer he claimed he didn’t like, and it was so good. A little too good, that contrast of hot, wet tongue and the December cold. A little too tempting, to stay there just kissing him where it felt young and boyish and perhaps just a slightly foolish amount of intimate. Till thought he better should concentrate on that other part, the part that made him grunt embarrassingly with greed when he forced himself to seperate them a little to trail down to the soft skin of Scholle’s neck. Scholle responded with a toneless gasp, and and arching back. Slender hands gripped into the fabric of his sweater once he started sucking on the salty, spicy skin right under Scholle’s ear. It seemed to melt into his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For a few short, endless moments there was nothing but the buzz in Till’s ears, Scholle’s burning body against his and the taste of him in his mouth. There was a sharp inhale when he nicked him with his teeth, just a little, he wasn’t stupid - or reckless. There was another one when he licked over the tender, maltreated skin and moved on a little downwards, and then there was nothing again but the rush of blood and light headedness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Scholle! Sven Kruspe, for <em>heaven’s sake!!</em>»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They broke apart like school kids, caught making out in their childhood rooms by eager parents.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«<em>Scholle!!!!</em>»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Over here!!» Scholle yelled back, eyes glimming with a mixture of mischief and anger that brought the image back of the feisty rodent boy that Till had met back at the lake and taken home. He envied the steadiness of his voice. Scholle didn’t meet his eyes but he was smiling while he tugged his jacket back into place and ran a hand through his hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, when Gert appeared between the garbage bins and parked cars, all frustrated annoyance, Till couldn’t imagine that they were fooling him much. Scholle’s lips were too swollen from kissing and the fresh love-bite on his neck was still wet. He didn’t think he looked a lot better and hastily dropped his eyes to the floor. His cheeks were burning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«We need to pack up,» Gert said. «It would be nice if you could help, for once. Hi, Till.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Ehm. ... Hi,» Till mumbled at his shoes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I will be there in a sec,» Scholle said, unimpressed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Your <em>sec </em>usually lasts exactly as long as we need to load everything in. <em>Now</em>, please?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle smacked his lips, displeased.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I can help,» Till offered quickly, desperate for this moment to end and to feel less on display - and more of use.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle’s bandmate looked relieved.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Thank you.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«You really don’t have to,» Scholle said reluctantly. He was sulking, for reasons Till could not possibly fathom, and that made him even more insecure. «We can do it.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«It’s no problem, really ...»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till followed them back inside the labyrinth of a makeshift backstage area, after Scholle’s had given in with a shrug and a grimace. Whatever his problem was, it didn’t seem to be mistrust anymore, at least. Scholle drew out a beaten up, oblong guitar case, hidden from sight underneath the stacks of chairs and pressed it into his hands first thing. «Don’t drop it,» he warned darkly but then actually stopped paying attention to him and got to work.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle, Gert, and the drummer who’s name Till thought was Gunnar or Gunther or something, collected a heap of cables, bags, half a drum-kit and assorted oddities inside a shoebox, while Till stood in the way, clinging on to a guitar case and feeling useless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«So, uh.» Till broke the awkward silence when they were finally back outside next to a pile of junk and waiting for Gunnar (or Gunther) to bring back a car. He still held on to his surprisingly heavy case.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«It’s my birthday in January. I’m having a party ... if uhm. You’d like to ...?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«What kind of party?» Scholle didn’t miss a beat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«At my house ..., well, the barn next door really. It’s gonna be a few people actually. 40, maybe 50? Maybe ... maybe with live music. Uh. If I can find some.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle and Gert exchanged an indecipherable look.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«How about us?» Gert said and kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. Scholle smiled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till stared.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«<em>You</em>?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Yes, us. You’d have to find a sound-system though. Ours broke last week.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I ... But <em>you’re</em> ... I mean, Yes!! Ok. Yes. Sure. <em>That would be awesome</em>.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Cool,» Scholle said. And just like that, Till had a band.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle wrote Gert’s number on his arm with a slightly scratchy ballpoint pen after they’d loaded everything in Gunnar’s (it really was Gunnar) too small car. Till was acutely aware of the rest of the band already being squeezed together on the back seat and waiting to leave, while their guitarist held his wrist still with a warm hand, thumb pressing on his pulsepoint.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Just let us know, when and where,» Scholle said, and finally pryed Till’s hand off the rough leather handle. He grinned up at him with that innocent expression of his that could only mean that he was up to no good — and kissed him. A quick, split second peck, at the corner of his mouth, like he pretended to sell it as a kiss on his cheek. Till could have sworn he’d felt a tiny lick of tongue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not even a minute later he was gone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till definatly needed to find more to drink.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">* * *</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <strong>
    <span class="s1">Outside Schwerin, January 4th, 1988</span>
  </strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till stood 50 meters outside of his house and listened to the noise inside. It was <em>nice</em> from here, so full of life. The distant laughter filled him with a warm satisfaction. About 60 people were currently singing, dancing, and laughing together because <em>he</em> had called them here. The band had been a smashing success, there was enough beer for everyone to get some, and people had brought him all kinds of bottles as birthday presents for everyone to top up and get wasted. People were making out on his couch. It felt good.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But It could have been <em>perfect</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bitter taste of disappointment seemed self indulgent and misplaced when there was so much to be happy about, yet there it was. He wasn’t sure what he had expected really.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle had largely ignored him today.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Well, maybe that was a bit uncharitable. He hadn’t <em>ignored</em> him, precisely, he just hadn’t sought him out. In fact, he had been quiet and withdrawn the entire day, save for the hour of making noise in the barn. And between that, and the fact that Till had hardly gotten a minute in without someone calling his name today, they hardly had even talked yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It stung more than it should.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feet shuffling on the gravel pulled him out of his thought.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Hey.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And there he was. Speak of the Devil.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Hey.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till felt even more uncharitable. Scholle didn’t look happy in the dark, dressed to thin and shivering and ghostly pale. He looked atypically shy, too, with his hands in his pockets and his hesitant steps. He was so young. He kept forgetting it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It made asking almost easy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Is everything ok?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle dropped his gaze and shrugged. His feet drew nervous shapes into the sand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I lost my job.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Ah</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«What happened?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I was late.» Scholle shrugged again and drew up his shoulders against the cold. «One too many times, I guess.» He crossed his arms. «I wouldn’t have been, but my girlfriend ... well, I guess ex-girlfriend now, kicked me out. I stayed at Gert’s, but the busses there don’t come often enough, so.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till blinked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Oh</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I didn’t even know you <em>had</em> a girlfriend,» he said, and ignored the spark of guilt in his stomach in favor of the glint of jealousy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle turned to him then, eyes glittering.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Would it have made a difference if you had?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till shifted on his feet ... to keep warm and to fight for honesty.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«It probably should, but ... No.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle gifted him with the ghost of a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I wasn’t so sure of that. So I figured, better not mention it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till exhaled with relief. <em>There</em> he was.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Has anyone ever told you that you’ll get in trouble with that attitude?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«<em>So</em> many times.»</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m not gonna lie, updates on this one will be very slow. Young people’s emotions are so specifically peculiar, it’s really hard to write. But I couldn’t hold back on this one any more because it means so much to me. </p><p>I don’t usually ask for comments, but this time I would really love to know what you think. :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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